Thursday, September 29, 2011

Arising before dawn in ritual pursuit
aware of austerity, sharp, acute
a chill that has settled
and defines for a time
the spoils of silently watching.

As the hoary frost on crimson leaves
succumbs to the center,
succumbs to the sun
as ice becomes rain
and the dew is undone
and the bluest of blue
frames vivid prisms spun
of the thread of a love
fleetingly grasped
desperately held
and quickly lapsed
into seeking again
into hoping for when
that moment will lend
less furtively.

Retiring at dusk from the ritual pursuit
aware of austerity, dulled but astute
exhaustion has settled
and defines for a time
the spoils of silently watching.

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Welcome to "When I Wax"-- a place to escape the pedants and wax poetic, or even wax artistic.

The mythologist Joseph Campbell was asked by an interviewer how a regular person could preserve his sense of the mythic when so many feel too besieged by the claims of every day living. He said, "You must have a place to which you can go, in your heart, in your mind, or your house, almost every day, where you do not know what you owe anyone or what anyone owes you. You must have a place you can go to where you do not know what your work is or who you work for, where you do not know who you are married to or who your children are."

When I Wax is such a place for me. Blogging drafts of poetry and other sundries is like practice fly-casting on the front lawn... it may look silly, but it's effective...

Thank you

For the Angel of Death spread his wings on the blast,
And breathed in the face of the foe as he pass'd;
And the eyes of the sleepers wax'd deadly and chill,
And their hearts but once heaved, and for ever grew still!
George Gordon ByronThe Destruction of Sennacherib